Being at the pub isn’t just about having a drink and exchanging ideas with others. It’s also about watching things happen, things that can be most interesting. Real life drama.
Isn’t it real-life drama when you see a man in his right senses ordering 15 beers at a go? And that, when no announcement has been made to the effect that stocks will run out in the next five minutes!
You aver that it’s all in the name of showing it to all and sundry that yuko na pesa! Whoever told him other people care whether he has lots of dosh or not? Kwani, nani hana zake?
However, if that’s something that makes him feel happy, let it be. It’s entertaining to watch such kind of nonsense!
There’s this other occasion when an old pal arrives at an open-air bar where you’ve been having a beer in the company of Uncle Kich, your mum’s kid bro to whom another name for beer is Safari Lager. It’s clear the guy has just dropped off a daladala at a nearby bus stop.
We ask him to take a seat and he says thank you. Even before he’s fully settled down in his plastic chair, he starts to lament how today’s mechanics are unreliable.
“Imagine; it’s three days since I left my car with my fundi, one of the most accomplished vehicle mechanics in Dar, but as we sit here, I can’t be sure I’ll be able to collect my vehicle tomorrow…damn him!” he tells us all that, much as we haven’t asked him anything about his car.
We aren’t interested in his broken car, nor are we keen on whether he came by daladala, bajaji or bodaboda, but he tells us of how much he’s spending on taxis. He tells us he’s seriously considering buying a new car.
When he goes to the loo, Uncle Kich whispers to you that actually, the guy doesn’t own a car any longer. It means, no car of his is in any garage!
“He sold his ramshackle of a car, a Toyota Corolla, two months ago for a song, and he has already eaten the money…” says Uncle Kich.
“So, why’s he telling us stories about his car in the hands of a mechanic?” you ask.
“I don’t know…maybe the idea is to give us the impression he’s financially okay…as if we care!” says Uncle.
Then, there’s this incident when Lucia, the assistant akaunta at this pub whose identity will remain secret, faced a big test. She’s at the counter chatting with Billy, a guy she had always considered hers and hers alone. She actually referred to him as “husband” and her fellow wahudumu called him shemeji.
Then, enter this tallish woman who had arrived in a bajaj, not a bodaboda, the dear-most mode of transport for our city girls. She walks straight to the counter where she’s received with a big hug and a peck on the cheek. I can read the dismay on Lucia’s face.
Billy holds his new “wife’s” hand and walks her to a table of their own away from the counter. Since Lucia and you are familiar with each other, you ask her what’s happening.
“That woman is trash…Billy is still my husband no matter what…in any case those big bums she carries behind her are Turkish-made—fakes!” You’ve not sought all that information but there we are.
All this and more is the kind of real-life drama you encounter, making a beer at the pub worthwhile, a far cry from having it at home seated beside mama watoto as she watches Jua Kali.
